Losing a pet is never simple.
Sometimes it's a slow, heavy knowing-the kind where you make the impossible choice to let them go peacefully. Other times it's a sudden, breath stealing tragedy that rips the ground out from under you. I've lived through both, and neither is easier. The only constant is the ache that follows, the kind that moves in and never fully leaves.
In May, we lost our puppy, Indiana Bones- Indy for short. He was just 11 months old. Too young, too full of life, too loved to be gone. One day he was chasing tennis balls, begging for bites of cheese, plopping himself unapologetically onto every piece of furniture, and trotting beside me on walks. The next day, my house felt quieter, smaller...wrong. Losing him suddenly meant I didn't get to say goodbye the way I wanted, the way any of us wanted. There was no gentle fading, no last whispered promise into his ear. Just absence.
In 2020 we said goodbye to Holly, our 14-year-old Jack Russell, whose legs no longer carried her where she wanted to go. Choosing to let her pass peacefully was the most loving and excruciating decision we have ever made. My husband sat beside her as the weight left her body, as her soul-yes, I believe animals have them- slipped into wherever it is they go. I was sobbing outside. She loved chasing frisbees and bubbles, and she happily played clean up crew for the scraps the kids dropped on the floor. Letting her go was an act of mercy, but still shattered me.
Two different endings-one chosen, one stolen- and yet the same hollow space inside where they once lived.
I'm not religious, but I do believe there more than just this life. I believe Indy and Holly still exist somewhere, in a place without pain or limits. Sometimes I look for signs- a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, a random heart with a paw print decal, a sound that makes me pause, a dream that feels too vivid to be "just a dream." Maybe they're saying hello Maybe they're reminding me that love like this doesn't disappear- it just changes form.
I loved them both beyond words- we all did. And we still do. They were more than pets- they were family, joy, and unconditional love wrapped in fur. Indy with his cheese-loving, tennis- ball- chasing, furniture- conquering- charm. Holly with her bubble-obsession, scrap- gobbling, fiercely loyal heart. They each left paw prints that will never fade.
Grief doesn't care how many legs someone had. It's just love that has nowhere to go. And so, I'll keep looking for them- in the smallest moments, in the quietest spaces- until we find each other again.
